


Song of Earth

by Sandtalon



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, hes very stressed abt that, moominmama moominpapa and little my are all mentioned, snufkin has to make a song abt the earth, snufkin is a nature spirit, very small fic im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 06:06:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18845170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandtalon/pseuds/Sandtalon
Summary: Snufkin is a wandering fairy/fae/spirit tasked with compiling the earth's entire essence into a song. But how can he, when the earth is so big?Moomin meets a wandering traveler and decides that o all the friends he could make, it has to be this one.(Short & sweet fic abt two friends meeting.)





	Song of Earth

**Author's Note:**

> hope yall are having a lovely day/night

The earth is alive.

It always has been, really. It’s not anything new or strange- not to Snufkin anyway – but it is exciting. It hums as if confident in its uncertainty and knowing in its vastness. It rises up from the ground like a song, and Snufkin crouches to bury his hands in the loam.

Its all around him now. The small folk dance, singing a new spring tune on the edge of his mind. Their song hasn’t got notes yet.

A twig snaps, scattering the small folk.

Snufkin doesn’t move. Animals know better than to interrupt a spring tune. They’ll add to the music, but never interrupt. Even earthworms pause until he’s passed. That means a house-dweller is here.

_He almost played for them._

 

 

Moomin barely dares to breathe as he hides behind a large oak.

The scene before him is one he’d only dreamed of witnessing- a real forest spirit!

Behind a wide green hat, a figure in green has stooped down, burying his gloves in the dirt. White peonies bud and bloom around the hat, unfurling into a lush crown. Mist gathers and rolls as though playing around him, so thick it almost breathes.

Moomin is so entranced he doesn’t notice the dried twig under his paw until it’s too late. The snap seems to echo throughout the forest.

Moomin ducks behind the tree with pounding heart and held breath. The forest is deathly still, as if every animal has stopped. Not stopped moving, or breathing, or calling. Just. Stopped. He peeks out and comes nose to nose with the spirit, whose hat is bare again. Moomin shouts in surprise and falls back.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the spirit says instead of helping him up. “Weren’t you taught to stay where the forest speaks?”

“The forest doesn’t speak.”

“Not to you.” The spirit moves back to where he crouched earlier, scuffing the dirt and picking up his backpack. “Good day.”

“What- wait! How am I supposed to stay there if I can’t hear it?”

The wanderer vanishes into the forest, calling over his shoulder. “Listen!”

 

 

It’s been eight days since he’s seen the spirit. Papa had said such creatures came and go as they please, and Mama had reminded him not to make deals before sending him on his way. Moomin doesn’t want to listen for the forest’s voice. He wants to listen for where it isn’t. Where the spirit is.

Moomin takes the sack lunch and marches off to the forest. He’s just past the tree line when harmonica notes slide through the air, sweet and tantalizing as the end of a day and dewdrops before morning. It cuts off abruptly.

“You’re back.”

Moomin startles, looking over to the stream. The spirit wades out, hat tipped just so Moomin can’t see his eyes.

“I wanted to know your name.”

The spirit stops. “Names have power. What do you have in return?”

Moomin doesn’t know much about Names or True Names. He knows lots about spirits and their many jobs, but not Names. Papa made a deal that kept him from speaking of them, and Mama has enough Other Blood in her veins that they don’t mean the same thing. Maybe it will be the same for Moomin.

Regardless, this sounds like a bargain, and he’s not keen on that.

“Oh, I don’t want to make a deal. We could be friends instead?”

The spirit stares at him, and then laughs. He laughs so hard he crouches over, tears dripping onto the grass and turning the dandelions white.

“Are you all right?”

“Never better.” The spirit wipes tears from his eyes and straightens up with a smirk. “Hello, friend. My name is Snufkin, freely given.”

Moomin brightens. “I’m Moomin.”

“Moomin.” The spirit says it slowly as if testing out the sound of it. “Not your full name. Smart.”

Moomin doesn’t know what to make of this, but Snufkin doesn’t complain when Moomin follows his new friend to the eastern meadows.

 

 

 

Snufkin is learning lots.

When Moomin had first asked him to be his friend, he’d cried of laughter. Of course a house-dweller who wanted a name- _a freely given name!_ – then asked for the one deal that set them both free. Of course, it would come from someone who lived under a roof of all places.

Of course, he’d accepted. Snufkin’s never been anyone’s friend before, and it sounds like an awfully interesting adventure. He’d offered his Name, in order to keep them on equal terms. He’s also made sure the basic rules will never affect his friend, so long as one of them considers themselves so. Moomin can eat the woodfolk food, and dance with spirits. Deals can’t be unknowingly made either, because Snufkin would hardly let _that_ happen to a friend.

He’s agreed to be a friend.

 _Never_ a puppeteer.

He never wants to be like _them._

Some of his kind stay in the forest and forget to be kind. Their moral compasses become skewed as trees close in, until there is no direction beyond what seems interesting for the moment. Snufkin refuses to be like that. The earth is dangerous where they walk. Snufkin is frightened by what could have occurred, had his friend met someone _else_ instead.

Moomin doesn’t seem to know. His new friend is quite happy to sit by Snufkin as he fishes, or to look for particularly interesting rocks in the creek bed. His new friend can skip stones seven times, which is amazing compared to Snufkin’s three.

He’s had a meal with the house-dwellers, though he hadn’t been able to stay under the roof for long. The small folk may not sing for him if he does. Still, the food had been wonderful and the company even more so. He now knew the joy of flying a kite and picnicking - what a strange concept – on the grass. He’s read many books from Papa’s library and has learned to make jam with Mama. He’d found one of his older sisters living with them as a trickster spirit. (He has so many sisters, he hadn’t recognized Little My. She was certainly stubborn enough to stay a spirit and live under a roof.) Along the way, he began to consider them less house-dwellers, and more just…. Moomins.

They are who they are, be they friend or family of friend, but they are not simply house-dwellers. They’re too special for that. All these things slowly worked their way into his heart.

When there is something in a mumriks heart, it must be played. This is his job. This is what he was born to do: to play the song of the earth each spring.

So what does he do when he has a different song to play?

 

 

 

“Are you all right?”

Snufkin tilts his head at this. They’re midway through summer, and the air lies hot and muggy between them. He’s set up camp by the river, as close as can be to Moominhouse without tainting his tent with a roof. The fishing’s good too, and he just needs one more catch for a decent dinner. Moomin sits beside him on the bridge.

“I can see something’s been bothering you. I’m worried.”

“It’s a very small problem. Likely gone by next spring.” Maybe.

“Mama says even little problems are important.”

“I suppose so.” Snufkin stares out past the trees. They whisper that secrets are made to be kept. The tell him to disappear into them and never return to this valley, to run from house-dwellers and bury his hands in the earth. They want him. They want a song.

“Would you like to hear a story, Moomin? It’s rather short and not very good, but I’d like to tell it.”

“Oh, yes!”

Snufkin reels in his line and settles back, watching the sky. “Well. There was once a very young mumrik. He was born of a forest spirit and a house-dweller and belonged to neither. So he left long ago to find where home is. He rather wanted to be outdoors, anyway.”

Moomin’s ears perk up at this. “He wanted to be a spirit?”

“Very likely, yes. It’s his nature to be alone... It’s not that company was bad, he just needed time to himself.”

Moomin nods at this, so Snufkin settles back into the story.

“This mumrik liked to travel and make music. He liked it so much, he became very good just from playing his harmonica every day. And one day, one of the oldest spirits heard him play. The mumrik was asked to quantify all the spirit’s being into a single song, and the mumrik agreed. He didn’t really have any other option.”

Moomin reaches over and holds Snufkin’s hand. It’s nice, to have a friend he can hold hands with. He's gotten used to this over the past few months.

“The problem is, the earth is an awfully big place. It’s much to big and gorgeous and vibrant and….”

Moomin squeezes his hand tighter when Snufkin trails off.

“It’s too much,” he says quietly. “But now I’ve found a different song I want to play. I can’t get it out of my head; I can’t play anything else but it’s not the song I should be playing.”

 “Well what type of song is it?”

“It’s about here,” Snufkin says softly. “it’s Moominvalley and the sound of this creek and skipping stones together and flower crowns and picking berries and you, Moomin. It’s a spring song for you.”

Moomin goes very quiet, and Snufkin is afraid he’s done something wrong. When Moomin speaks, he’s very quiet.

“You never said if that mumrik found where he belonged.”

Snufkin smiles, and thinks of how the sunlight is warmer here and laughter felt straight through to the innermost parts of his heart. He thinks about climbing trees and playing games with his friend. He will always need to travel, but this is where he will return to.

“I think I’ve found it, Moomin.”

Moomin gives his hand one last squeeze before letting go. “I’m glad. Now what shall we do about this problem?”

“Well I suppose I’ll just keep searching for the right tune.”

“Unless you don’t have to.” Moomin straightens up. “Maybe the earth doesn’t need one song. Maybe many little ones will do. You said there’s too much for just one tune, right?”

“…. Yes. Yes, that might just work.”

Moomin cheers, and Snufkin feels the pop of blooming cherry blossoms on his hat. His friend stares in wonder at them before scooting closer.

“Then can I ask one more question?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“May I hear it? The spring song, I mean.”

There is nothing he would like to play more. Snufkin breathes in fresh, new air and plays a spring tune.

All the earth stops to listen.

**Author's Note:**

> This was mostly me experimenting with characterization and short story type plot. I was trying to keep it under 2k so my apologies if it seems sort!!
> 
> I know I glossed over a lot of the friendship building stuff but I really wanted that last convo. Maybe I'll write more. maybe.
> 
> Edit: grammer mistake!


End file.
